


Pride

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spontaneous ficlet from <b>The Contract</b> universe. </p><p>A brief moment with John and Paul on this wonderful day! Hugs and love to you all. ❤️❤️  JP</p><p>Disclaimer: This is all fiction. No libel intended, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

**28 June, 2015**  
  


After gulping down his last swig of lukewarm tea, he leaned on the railing and smiled while he watched the rosy glow of sunrise bathe Manhattan in hope. Down below, a large puddle from yesterday’s heavy rain sparkled with rainbow glitter leftover from last night’s celebrations. Bits of twinkling plastic floated on the dirty water’s surface, glittering reminders of the court’s recent decision, testaments to humanity’s enduring lust for freedom and equality and joy.  
  
When Paul absentmindedly spun his gold wedding band, a tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. Today they’d hold hands and watch New York’s outrageous, colorful Pride March from this terrace, together. If John’s health had been better, Paul would have insisted they accept that invitation to serve as this year’s grand marshals. John would have bitched and groaned, but he would have said yes, eventually. Instead, the old crank tottered about their flat, grumbling over the selection of Derek Jacobi and Ian McKellan, claiming those two Shakespearean prats weren’t famous enough. Yes, if John weren’t still recovering from that emergency hip surgery, he would have waved the biggest flag he could carry on the hood of a pink parade car today; Paul’s husband adored parades, especially when they included dancing drag queens and floats covered in rainbows of fabulousness.  
  
His husband.  
  
Shit, was it really only a year since England had legalized gay marriage, since he and John had finally tied the knot back at their estate in Sussex? George wasn’t there. Neither were Linda or Neil. All those dear friends that had died from cancer or drugs or AIDS. But everyone at their intimate wedding felt the warmth of their spirits, rays of rare sunshine on an otherwise misty, chilly September day in their English garden. Even that dead prick, Sutcliffe, must have smiled.  
  
And just two days ago, the world had changed once more, and here they were celebrating another victory on Fifth fucking Avenue.  
  
New York City.  
  
New York was John.  
  
England was John.  
  
Paul’s entire bloody everything was John.  
  
He wiped away the tear and smiled into the sun until his jaw hurt and his eyes tired from squinting.  
  
Jesus Christ, they’d made it.  
  
Their gaggle of kids were grown, some married and busy raising their own children; their feisty, copper-haired daughter would be hitched before Christmas to that Australian writer twit. Now that was going to be one hell of a wedding, at least if he had anything to say about it, which he damn well did. Jenny would walk down the aisle in a posh Stella wedding dress on the arms her two poof dads. Just another month of physical therapy and griping and swearing, and John would be ready to strut his way through the ceremony like the daft fuchsia flamingo he’d always been.  
  
His husband.  
  
Paul and John. John and Paul. Fifty-seven mad years together—well, if you didn’t count the shitty seventies, a decade that Paul-fucking-McCartney had long ago decided to forget.  
  
1958\. Two young dreamers snogging on a drizzly green golf course, desperate to escape Liverpool.  
  
Life was good.  
  
Cor, he’d never felt so much happiness—so much pure, overwhelming love for another human being.  
  
“McCartney! Where in the bleeding fuck are you?”  
  
Shaking his head, Paul chuckled. “I’m out here, you git!”  
  
The door to the terrace swung open and out hobbled John in his white robe and bare feet, cane gripped in his slender, liver-spotted hand. On Friday, when the Supreme Court’s decision had come down and the universe collectively rejoiced, John painted his hated walking stick with swirls of bright colors, tying a rainbow ribbon around its handle that now fluttered in the brisk morning breeze.  
  
“How the hell are you up this early, Johnny?” Paul moved one of the outdoor chairs closer to their wrought-iron bistro table. John plopped his arse down and patted his thigh.  
  
“The clock’s a ticking; there’s no more fucking time to waste sleeping late. Get your bony codger arse on my lap, Macca.”  
  
With some hesitation and a raised eyebrow, Paul carefully lowered his bum onto John’s good leg. He sank into John’s embrace and asked, “Ready for another day of celebrations, love?”  
  
John fiddled with Paul’s silver bracelet before he pulled him down for a kiss. “One more of these flaming poof shindigs and I’ll be shitting Skittles and tiaras. Course, these days, I’d just be happy to enjoy a good shit. What time are Brother Cadfael and Gandalf showing up?”  
  
“Sirs Derek and Ian should be stopping by around seven or so. And it’s not a party, just a bit of wine and some nibbles before those two head off to the big VIP bashes. Oh, and Derek’s bringing his partner, Richard.”  
  
“Christ, everybody’s bloody queer these days.”  
  
Below, a street sweeping truck rumbled along the asphalt while a flock of pidgeons flew up into the bright sky, past their terrace.  
  
“So much has changed since…” Staring at the birds, Paul sighed as his words trailed off. John scratched his lover’s grey stubble with his thumbnail and waited.  
  
“That day I found you unconscious in that spooky, sterile flat.” Paul’s cleared his throat as his eyes welled up with tears. “I nearly lost you, forever. And here we are now—two decrepit, married queer geezers. And I’ve—I’ve never been fucking happier than I am right now, Johnny.”  
  
“Happy Pride, Paul. I’ll always love you.”  
  
 “I’ll always remember, Jock.” Paul kissed John’s temple, his lips lingering on his warm skin until John patted his bum.  
  
“Right. Be a dear, Macca, and make your crippled husband a cup of tea. And bring a few biscuits, eh? The chocolate ones.”  
  
~~~


End file.
